


The Man of the House

by Stormvoël (BushRat8)



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Romance, character introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-29 10:34:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11439054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BushRat8/pseuds/Stormvo%C3%ABl
Summary: As the innkeeper of Grantham House goes about her daily business, many things, large and small, trigger memories of Captain Barbossa.





	The Man of the House

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ana_fernandes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ana_fernandes/gifts).



> The usual wandering tenses and POVs. Pay attention and you'll spot a line from At World's End. Takes place during the several years post-AWE, pre-OST. 
> 
> Castile is a vegetable-based soap, made with olive oil rather than tallow; very mild and excellent for both skin and hair. Prized and expensive at the time, imported castile would have been quite the indulgence.
> 
> Silk is referred to as "shot" when it's woven one color in the warp and another in the weft, giving an iridescent finish that changes color depending upon the light and the angle at which the cloth is viewed. Can also be done in multiple colors each way and then it's really spectacular. Just as a matter of idle speculation: being a clotheshorse familiar with the style of the day and costly, beautiful things, I'll bet Barbossa owned, at the very least, a shot silk waistcoat — if not a coat or an entire suit — likely woven in rich purple crossed with gold, and adorned with gold buttons.

 

 

-oOo-  
  
THE MAN OF THE HOUSE  
  
-oOo-  
  


 

  
As the innkeeper rings the bell summoning her lodgers to breakfast, her eyes fall upon the place at the head of the table;  the one she always sets just in case Captain Barbossa should suddenly come home.  He claimed that spot for his own as the man of the house some years ago, and ever since, she's never let anyone else sit there.  Three times a day, she puts out a fresh plate, silver, and linen, a tankard, and Barbossa's favorite goblet, and woe to the lodger who tries to touch them.  "Not there, please,"  she has to say when a sleepy-eyed man starts to slide into the chair.  "That's reserved."  
  
"What?  Who for?"  he asks.  
  
She shakes her head and repeats,  "It's reserved.  Please… take another seat."  
  
Sometimes, when she's cooking, she studies a particularly fat, juicy capon or choice portion of rabbit stew, and thinks about how she doesn't want to waste them on anyone but her Captain.  But the place at the head of the table is empty, its chair waiting to receive a man who could be anywhere in the world, so she steels herself and serves her food up to lodgers she cares nothing about.  
  
It's little things like that which remind her just how much she misses her blue-eyed Hector.  
  
The innkeeper sits scrubbing out her tin bathing tub one morning — she owns one of only a half-dozen on the island, she's proud to say — when she thinks of what Barbossa looks like in it, so tall that he has to tuck his knees up under his chin.  The weather's always hot, so she sponges his skin with cool water and her jealously-guarded castile to refresh him, and,  "Ohhh, Dove, 'tis a grand luxury, this,"  he murmurs, bowing his head under the flow of water from her pitcher, then lifting his chin so she can freshen his beard as well.  "Wish I could, but I can't waste a drop on th' ship for such soft things, not even for bein' th' captain."  
  
"Then… perhaps you'll come to visit me more often…?"  
  
Hardly the first time she's said that, and it always comes out more possessively than the innkeeper thinks Barbossa wants to hear;  but although she inevitably gets a raised eyebrow in response, there's never any reproach in it because he's thinking the very same thing.  "Aye, m' darlin',"  he answers, putting a wet hand on her shoulder, his thumb tracing the tender spot at the side of her neck.  "P'raps I will, at that."  
  
Laundry day brings its own set of memories, some merry, some sad, and a particular one she wonders if Barbossa remembers as clearly as she does.  He never thought to ask if she was a virgin during their first night together, but his discovery of the blood on the sheet the next morning put an expression on his face that she'll never forget.  "Ye waited for me,"  he said, taking her face between his hands;  gently, to show her how precious she was to him.  "All these years, an' ye saved yerself for me even knowin' I might ne'er come back."  
  
What no one except Barbossa knows — not even the innkeeper, being distracted and over-busy that day —  is that he filched the sheet before it could be put in the wash basket and took it back to the ship, where he cut out the bloodied spot and tucked it into the deepest recesses of his pocket, where it's remained every day of his life since then.  Though he rarely takes it out, fearing its loss, he touches it often, reminding himself that not everything in his life is savage brutality;  that this blood was shed, not in violence, but during a night when he, Hector Barbossa, battered and unlovely though he might seem to everyone else, was what a pretty, virtuous woman wanted most in all the world.    
  
It's never occurred to him that the innkeeper, too, has souvenirs of the nights they've spent together.  Over time, and in defiance of her usual clean ways, she grew loath to wash the sheets they'd lain on;  and, like the bloodied cloth Barbossa kept, she began to put all of them aside.  It makes her turn pink with not-quite embarrassment, but she can't help it:  she'll gather the linen sheets to her face, inhaling the dark, heady savor of Barbossa's sweat, which summons to her mind every detail of his scarred body and the way he'd moan,  "Would ye desire t' have me within ye, Dove?  Tell me aye, for I wish t' hear it."  
  
At first, like every modest, well-brought-up woman, she insisted upon remaining dressed in her chemise while abed, but after Barbossa begged and cajoled (and after he clawed one chemise to bits in the midst of his passion), she bashfully agreed to remove it so he could look upon her nakedness in the candlelight.  And now, when he's away — even though she knows she's behaving like a wanton — she often stands unclothed at night in the middle of her room, her long hair down, recalling the heat of his sea-blue gaze on her skin.  
  
Ultimately, though she knew she should, she found it too hard to think of washing any of those sheets and letting her lodgers use them, so she spent some of her income to buy new ones that held neither associations nor Barbossa's intimate scent.  
  
Like other men, Barbossa believes that laundry is a task to be seen to by women, and he's spent more than one afternoon lolling in the garden hammock watching the innkeeper grapple with the work.  But there was one memorable day, as she was struggling more than usual to get the linens out of the lye tub, when a pair of strong hands unexpectedly took the stirring pole from her.  "Rest yerself for a moment, Dove,"  he said, lifting the sodden sheets into the rinse water.  "Don't want ye too tired an' worn out t' enjoy yerself tonight."  
  
"Hector, hush!!"  But beneath her blush at his brazen words, the innkeeper smiled both thanks and anticipation.  
  
She finds reminders of him in her room from time to time:  a wisp of feather from his hat inside the armoire, a strand of auburn hair snagged in the bedstead, a mark on the floor from when he tried to pull on a boot while standing up, only to lose his balance and drop it, its heavy heel striking the wood with a -thump-.  All these discoveries bring a lump to her throat as she wonders where he might possibly be and wishes him safely home.  
  
One time, the innkeeper came upon a silver button from Barbossa's coat on the floor behind her washstand, and she showed it to him, offering to sew it back on.  "Nay, Dove,"  he told her, to her surprise.  "I've plenty more, as ye see, so you keep that."  It sits now in her little glass memento box;  and, as for Barbossa, the gap in his line of coat buttons is there to remind him, not of something lost, but of something possessed and treasured.  
  
The memories are exceptionally vivid each time the innkeeper opens the wardrobe door and looks at the gorgeous dresses Barbossa gave her.  He'd disappeared before dawn one morning and she was afraid he'd run back to sea without saying goodbye, but as she was setting out her lodgers' breakfast, there was a great scuffling at the front door and Barbossa entered, leading a man hauling a large wooden trunk on a makeshift trolley.  "Off with ye!"  he barked, tossing him a silver piece before shooing him back outside.  
  
He didn't explain, only grinned;  then, grunting with the effort, he dragged the trunk up the staircase and down the hall to their room, where he said it must remain unopened until the innkeeper's morning duties were completed.  "'Tis a surprise,"  was all he would say to her questioning look.  
  
The previous night's amorous exertions had given Barbossa a colossal hunger, and he took his time putting down a breakfast big enough for three men, washed down with several mugs of frothy ale (with the innkeeper rolling her eyes when he belched, even as she laughed behind her hand).  Then,  "Leave 'em for the maid,"  he directed when she began setting up to wash the dishes.  "The wench does little enough around here, far as I can see."  And he certainly had that right — the innkeeper has always been the real slave of Grantham House, both as servant and owner — but it didn't stop a grumpy Cora from sticking her lip out, annoyed at being bossed around by her mistress's lover.  
  
The innkeeper cared not one bit what the maid thought of it — she had more than plenty to do even without having to wash the pots and plate and silver — so she obediently took Barbossa's hand and allowed herself to be led upstairs.  "Now then,"  he said, seating her on the edge of the bed,  "let's see what's what."  
  
The trunk was a battered old thing that looked like it had gone 'round the globe at least three hundred times (which it had, being Barbossa's own sea chest), but once it was unlocked and the lid was lifted, mounds of unimaginable beauty spilled out:  frocks of royal blue, pale green, silver-embroidered maroon, deepest, densest black, and two spectacular shot silks, the colors for which the innkeeper still has no names.  There were velvets and taffeta, lustrous silks, fine lace, and sparkling beads, along with embroidered shawls and caps, petticoats, stockings, and chemises of both linen and the finest, smoothest cotton, all taken from a prize not a month before.  "Just thought it were time ye had somethin' in yer cupboard other'n rags like that workaday smock,"  Barbossa said, stroking the innkeeper's cheek.  "A lovely lady should have garments t' match, an' plenty of 'em."  
  
The innkeeper was so gobsmacked that she couldn't squeak out a word.  
  
Out came the billows of colorful fabrics, to be laid across the bed like a crazy quilt.  "So, which be yer favorite?"  he asked.  
  
She couldn't tell him.  How could she possibly choose?  
  
But Barbossa insisted upon an answer, any answer, so the innkeeper blindly reached out to touch the blue velvet.  "Ah, 'twill look ravishin' on ye, that one,"  he said in approval.  "Come now, let's put it on."  
  
Stripped to her chemise, the innkeeper discovered that there was more to it than what she usually wore;  and, thinking better of asking her housemaid for help in dressing, she accepted Barbossa's assistance in donning the gown.  Though he was rather more familiar with taking such dresses off, he was nothing if not able to think logically, and so was able to figure out the reverse procedure.  "Ye're a lovely sight, Dove,"  he told her, twirling his forefinger to prompt her into turning around so he might see her from all angles.  "Wear yer old smock in th' house when ye're cookin' or scrubbin' or doin' th' wash, if ye must, but ne'er again show yerself abroad 'cept if it be like this."  
  
"Pshaw,"  she said.  "Flattery."  
  
But,  "Nay:  truth."  
  
He took her to town that very morning to stroll about and for a bit of shopping, but immediately ran into a problem the innkeeper had never told him about when a prim town lady curled her lip at her, crossed to the far side of the muddy lane, and hissed over her shoulder,  "Pirate's whore!"  
  
Barbossa caught his breath in anger.  It hardly bothered him to be called pirate, for that's what he's always proudly been, but damned if he'd stand for anyone calling his decent, well-bred woman a whore.  "Aye, wench, you run!"  he shouted after the woman.  "Fuck off, an' th' next time ye dare speak to m' lady, ye'd best show some respect!"  
  
The innkeeper's fingers tightened on his arm, and she whispered,  "No matter, Hector;  pay no attention."  
  
Something about her words didn't sound right, and Barbossa frowned, observing,  "Bain't th' first time ye been tormented by such as that one, eh?"  She shook her head and didn't answer, but he wouldn't let it go.  "Tell me, darlin',"  he prodded her.  "Be there other slags like that what're callin' ye names?"  
  
"Pay no attention.  I know what you do and what you are, and it's never mattered a fig to me.  If it makes them want to call me a whore or anything like it, then it does and I don't care."  
  
Barbossa bit back the instinct to growl that he's an expert in whores, and if any of the town's straight-laced women want to know why the innkeeper doesn't fit the description, then they'd best ask him directly.  Instead, he tucked her hand more firmly through his elbow and told her,  "Come, Dove.  Let's get on wi' yer shopping and then go home."  
  
The innkeeper has never forgotten that day and how good it felt to hear him defend her.  
  
It's not always just on the outside where she needs defending, but in her own house, too.  Barbossa went the following day to a tavern to fetch a cask of ale and some bottles of wine for the inn, and on the way back, he encountered the same woman who'd been so insulting.  "If ye got somethin' t' say, I might be sayin' somethin' as well,"  he told her with an unpleasant smirk, pleased at the look of fright in her eyes.  "Now look here:  ye'll not be givin' the lady of Grantham House one bit more trouble on my account, or I'll be havin' a word with yer man 'bout why he can't control ye.  Might be havin' it at dawn when I call him out, at that.  Understand me?"  
  
It's easy to sneer at a local spinster;  not so easy to look head-on at Hector Barbossa and not be terrified, especially when he's making threats you know he'll keep.  Too frightened to speak, all she could get out was,  "Mm-hm."  
  
Good enough.  "Fine, then!  See that ye keep yer trap shut an' leave her alone!"  
  
Barbossa moved on, muscling the ale-cask and bottles along in a rickety wheelbarrow he'd borrowed from the inn.  He looked rather ridiculous doing this homely task (he looks ridiculous doing a lot of things), but no one would dare tell him that.  "Hey, Dove!"  he called once he'd rolled up to the back door leading into the pantry.  "Got yer drink for ye, so we won't be runnin' dry…"  
  
And stopped, for he heard voices arguing at the front of the house:  the innkeeper's, and one of her lodgers.  
  
It took two seconds to realize that the man was quibbling about his bill, and eight long steps to bring him to the doorway.  "What be this?"  he bellowed.  "The lady feeds an' waters an' shelters yer sorry arse, an' now ye don't want t' pay her?  Well, mayhap ye think ye may get the upper hand with a woman, but how'd ye like t' take the argument up wi' me?"  The man had the same look of fright on his face that the town woman had, and it's clear he'd waited until Barbossa was off on his errand so he could skip out without having to face him.  "Aye, just so,"  Barbossa snarled, disgusted.  "Good thing I came back sooner than ye figured.  Now open yer purse."  
  
Quaking, the man did as he was told, watching as Barbossa counted out exactly what was owed, then extracted an additional piece of gold for good measure.  "That's for bein' a scoundrel what takes advantage of th' backbreakin' toil of an honest woman,"  he informed him.  "Ye can leave now, an' don't come back!"  
  
The innkeeper didn't know what to say;  whether she should laugh or be unnerved.  "Since when were you ever concerned with 'honest'?"  she finally asked.  
  
Fair question;  and,  "Ye know perfectly well I'm not,"  Barbossa answered with a shrug, pinching her chin,  "but it's diff'rent here.  This be my home, an' you be my woman.  Fuck with either at yer peril."  
  
It was because of exactly this sort of thing that he'd brought her another gift far more important than new clothing;  and, late that night, as they were preparing for bed, Barbossa showed her what the sea chest still contained:  a bulky, clanking canvas sack.  "Let me pick it up so ye don't hurt yerself,"  he instructed when the innkeeper knelt down and curiously reached in to give it a pat.  "But not on th' bed;  it might collapse it."  
  
"Really?"  the innkeeper sassed him.  "You made a good start on collapsing it last night, and I'm sure the job will be finished come morning."  
  
Barbossa laughed at her boldness, raising her nightdress to smack her bare bottom a couple of  times.  "Lots more where that came from, m' girl, if ye keep talkin' like that."  Then he carefully lifted the sack out of the trunk and laid it down on the floor, where its weight made the boards creak.  "Might want t' find a hidey-hole t' keep this,"  he warned her.  
  
He pulled open the thick leather ties to reveal a large quantity of gold the likes of which put the innkeeper's jaw on the floor.  "Wh-what…?"  she stammered.  
  
Barbossa was no longer laughing, and his words to her were grave.  "I know ye been workin' yerself t' rag an' bone all these years, Dove, an' I'll not have it any longer,"  he said,  "not when I be havin' th' means t' give you ease.  Run Grantham House or retire from it, as ye please, but know that I'll not see ye havin' t' scrape an' scrabble t' keep yerself from starvin'."  
  
This was far too much for the innkeeper to take in;  she felt faint and unsteady, and put her hands up on Barbossa's shoulders.  "Oh, Hector… you needn't do this;  you shouldn't do this…!"  
  
"My sweet, only I know what I must needs do, so I tell ye:  I must an' will do this,"  he interrupted gently.  "I'll not always be ashore — ye know that — but even so, I can give ye means t' see that ye're always properly fed an' clothed, an' that ye've th' coin t' keep th' roof above ye in good repair so it don't fall down around yer ears.  When I go back t' sea, at least I'll be sure of that."  
  
The memory of Barbossa giving her his extraordinary gifts of beauty and peace of mind is a powerful one, and the mere sight of the lovely dresses always brings it back.  But stronger still is what it felt like when he took her hand in his and kissed it over and over, then slipped a black pearl ring on her finger;  a ring she now wears on a gold chain around her neck, that the shimmering pearl will not be ruined by lye or harsh soap or grease.  It's neither a wedding ring nor one of betrothal — he never said anything to suggest it might be — but it feels like the next best thing, and it comforts the innkeeper to think that, though he may give many gifts of other types of jewelry, rings are too fraught with meaning to blithely throw around to one and all.  
  
Although she doesn't know it and he won't tell her, she's absolutely right.  
  
But although she has him all to herself during those times when he's on her island, the innkeeper has to force herself not to think of the women she knows Barbossa's with when he's elsewhere — tarts who know how to pleasure him in the unknown, exotic ways she's sure he prefers (though if he knew of her worries, he would laugh and say her tender artlessness and desire to please give him far more satisfaction than anything he could get from a harlot) — because she's aware of his body's appetites and needs, and if he's not with her so she might sate them, then he'll go to someone else who will.  But what's hardest of all for her to acknowledge is the possibility that he's with, not a paid doxie, but someone exactly like her:  a woman in another port who feeds him and cares for him, who loves him and gives him succour.  It twists the innkeeper's heart and keeps her perpetually close to tears, especially when she looks at the empty place set thrice a day at the head of her dining table;  a place which only her Captain will ever be entitled to occupy.  
  
It's a place she saves, because if she doesn't, it will be admitting he might be gone forever.  
  
"Please… take another seat."  It's suppertime, and the lodger who tried to take Hector Barbossa's place at breakfast is trying to take it now.  "I'm sorry, but that place is reserved."  
  
The man doesn't like being told he cannot have what he wants, so he asks, as he did this morning,  "For who?"  
  
_For the man I love,_   thinks the innkeeper.  _For the man I hope — please God! — won't forget me._   "It's saved for the man of the house when he comes home."

 

  
  
  
-oOo-  FIN  -oOo-


End file.
